


Something in the Water

by dontcallmebree



Series: Do The Things You Never Showed Nobody [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Mob, Bearded Steve Rogers, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mob Boss Steve Rogers, Modern Bucky Barnes, Personal Assistant Bucky Barnes, Shrunkyclunks, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, sorta Slice of Life or timestamps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontcallmebree/pseuds/dontcallmebree
Summary: Steve’s had to bury more than a few friends, but he can’t shake the feeling that there’s more he’s putting to rest. “I’d be six feet under now if-,” Steve laughs at himself, shaking his head. “Well, I probably woulda been dead and gone by winter of ’44 anyway.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Do The Things You Never Showed Nobody [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022916
Comments: 26
Kudos: 176





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trudging along.
> 
> Beta Meraki_Moli strikes again.

The day is clear and bright, not a cloud in the sky. The heat is scorching. It’s the last thing on Steve’s mind.

Steve keeps his head low as the priest wraps up and everyone says their final goodbyes, a large turnout illustrating Neal Foy’s long life. Distant relatives give clusters of the Roshars a wide berth as they make their way to the front one last time and trickle off to the line of cars. 

He wonders how they perceived his old friend. Was he the uncle with connections no one spoke a word about? Was he distant and unknowable as his family grew and grew into the large, loving group he sees today? Or was he able to form ties and bond with every new addition to the Foy family tree? 

Neal never had children, but a couple nieces and nephews he raised share in the grief with one or two of the Roshars, some acknowledging his presence with a smile and a nod. Once most everyone clears out, he joins Mads and Ray up front. 

Ray pulls out an unopened bottle of whiskey and three aging shot glasses with varying intricate designs that Steve can still remember from his twenties. “Guess this is it. That bastard was the only common sense we had left.” He hands over the crystal antiques to each of them on either side, cracks open the seal on the bottle, and pours liberally to the very lip. “Without all ‘a that nagging, we’re bound to follow him in no time.”

Mads grunts, her peach painted lips pursed tightly. “Better fucking not, can you imagine the shit we’d get for that? I’m not spendin’ my afterlife dealing with his wrath.”

Steve peers into the dark pool in his glass, catching sight of his own face reflected back. “To not seein’ Neal anytime soon.”

“Sláinte,” Ray lifts his drink, and Mads and Steve echo him before they all down the shot. 

Steve’s had to bury more than a few friends, but taking an embroidered napkin from Mads to clean out his glass, he can’t shake the feeling that there’s more he’s putting to rest.

▽

◆

Steve hasn’t been as much of a mess as Bucky expected. He’d honestly been bracing for the worst, as this is the first time he’s witnessed one of the old friends Steve grew up with in the 30s pass away.

When the call came from Rita, Steve’s distress was silent. He accepted a short embrace before locking himself away in his office, asking for some time alone. Bucky understood. Grief is a complicated ever-changing thing. 

Steve came out not too long after, and sought comfort in his arms, burrowing into any and all manners of solace that Bucky offered. He kept a low profile at the funeral, mostly keeping to Bucky, Ray, and Mads, letting Sam and the guys help Rita deal with all the Roshars in attendance. 

The wake at the house is packed, and here Steve lets himself mourn with everyone else, sharing stories of his friend that Ray interjects with his own recounting whenever he could. Mads seems to have made a drinking game out of it, unearthing a tall bottle of whiskey from the depths of Ray’s jacket. 

Bucky hears about Neal as a teenager on the streets of 30s Brooklyn, mostly from the perspective of a somewhat older Steve that would inevitably find him in some kind of trouble and jump in himself, and those of the years he flitted from one interest to another, which Steve listens to intently and uproariously laughs at.

A few hours and probably too much liquor consumed later, Steve takes the bottle he and Mads had been passing back and forth away, with a chastising, “Thought we weren’t following him to the grave.” 

Mads flips him off but doesn’t make to steal it back. Steve pushes her plate of food closer, and slips out of the crowd. 

Bucky finds him a while later in the empty narrow corridor outside Rita’s office, sprawled out on the floor and smoking out the cracked window. “You want some food?” Bucky lifts the plate he brought over.

“Yeah,” Steve extends a hand, either for the plate or Bucky, he doesn’t know, but ends up grabbing onto the ends of his shirt and tugging on it. Bucky takes the hint and gently collapses onto the ground, leaning on the opposite wall. “Thanks, honey,” Steve picks up a piece of cake and picks at it, smiling in gratitude.

Bucky stabs a fork into the pile of boxty. “Hey, it’s for both of us,” he shoves the torn off pieces into his mouth, and pokes at Steve’s fingers when they go to finish off the potatoes. “Don’t hog the wedges, Steve, come on.”

Steve swipes one last piece before moving on, fondly laughing at him without a sound and making the crinkles around his eyes more prominent than ever. He offers the bottle he’s confiscated from Mads, and Bucky takes a tiny sip to wash down the food. “You okay?” Steve laughs as he winces at the burn.

Bucky soothes his throat with the help of more food. “Mm-hmm,” he swallows, setting the plate away and closer to Steve, and wipes his hands off on a paper towel. “I should be the one asking you that.”

Steve takes a long drag before stuffing out his cigarette on the wall outside the windowsill, widening the crack with an easy push. “Soon they’re all gonna be gone,” he watches his own fingers find the seam of Bucky’s pants and pull at the thread. “I’d be six feet under now if-,” Steve laughs at himself, shaking his head. “Well, I probably woulda been dead and gone by winter of ’44 anyway.”

Bucky tangles his fingers with the ones unraveling the stitches on his clothes, partly because he doesn’t want them ruined but also because Steve needs it. “You’ll still be you.” Steve lowers his eyes in a futile attempt at hiding. Bucky sometimes has the feeling that Steve hates how easily he can read him.

“It’s not the same,” Steve murmurs. He traces the lifelines on Bucky’s palm, large yet slim, elegant fingers making his skin tingle. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, d’you know that?” Blue eyes pry into his own, and the deep well of love is so overwhelming Bucky wishes he could escape. “I don’t want you to think-,” he gulps, cutting himself off. 

Bucky pulls him in to taste the sour taste of his tongue, bitter from the smoke and alcohol. “I know.” Bucky buries his fingers into the back of Steve’s hair as he slides even closer, between firm legs spread to the point of stretching the dark linen pants to its limits. “I’ll keep you alive.” The sound that’s punched out of the older man is quiet, and devastating all the same. “What would you have done, if you’d come home?”

“I don’t want to do this,” Steve whispers. 

Bucky places feather soft kisses along his temple, down the shell of his ear, and across to his chin where the soft dark hair of his beard tickles. “Tell me.” 

Steve clenches his jaw, and Bucky chases the muscle spasms with his lips. “I don’t know. Come home. And just- I don’t know, Buck.” He closes his eyes, lashes dark against his cheek. “Take care of the Roshars with Rachel, watch Rita and everyone else grow up.” Steve huffs a laugh. “Get Neal the fuck away from Ray and Mads, those two were always gettin’ him into more trouble.”

Bucky caresses the laugh lines around Steve’s mouth, tracing its path across the man’s striking features. “What about Captain America?”

“Yeah,” Steve swallows, “That too.”

Bucky sighs, giving him one last peck. “You think you’d have done all those things Neal did?” Steve shrugs, but it might as well have been a nod. “Hmm, or maybe you would’ve had the white picket fence and 2.5 kids-” Steve’s face scrunches up so comically before he can even finish the thought, and Bucky collapses onto his chest in fits of laughter.

“What do you think you’re laughin’ at, huh?” Steve pinches his side, and keeps him trapped in his arms while raining kisses across Bucky’s face.

Once his giggles subside, Bucky engages Steve in one last kiss, curling his tongue and biting at soft swollen lips. “You’re home now. You made it, and you got family waiting.” This time Steve doesn’t try to turn away, barely moving his head from the cradle of Bucky’s palms. “All of these people want you here, because they know you, Steve. Even when you were away, we never forgot. And you prove all those stories right every day.”

“You make it easier,” Steve breathes against his mouth, and captures his lips one more time for a lazy, unhurried moment, slow and syrupy sweet. This kind of kiss never fails to drown him in warm, opulent tranquility, soaking through his skin and grabbing hold of a nebulous mass inside until it threatens to pop.

The noise in the main room of the house ratchets up, the Roshars seemingly moving onto singing and more celebrations of Neal’s life. “We should go join the others.”

Bucky leans on the larger man’s shoulders as he stands, and slides his hands down into Steve’s to haul him up. He places a kiss to his chin, earning a look so tender he buries his face into the expanse of chest in front of him. “Come on, you can teach me the words and I’ll pretend to sing along.” Steve laughs into his hair, tugging him along to what must be the most raucous wake he’s ever been to.

◆

Faint light trickles through partially dimmed windows, even at the absurd predawn hour. Pushing through the heavy, tinted doors, Bucky is hit with the bizarrely pleasant, woodsy, vanilla scent. You’d think a gym would be the last place to smell so clean.

The 24 hour gym he and Steve go to has always been intriguing, to put it nicely. It’s undoubtedly an old boxing gym that hasn’t really been updated since probably the 60s, aside from some of the equipment and routine maintenance. 

The walls are a dark beige that manage to not look drab even under the almost golden light cast by fixtures hanging from exposed beams, and half of all available surfaces are taken up by flyers in faded ink. There are a few newly taped up ads here and there, but he has a feeling once anything gets posted, no one bothers to take them down, going all the way back to when this place actually _was_ a functioning boxing gym. 

While one section in the back is dominated by two rings and a shelf of boxing equipment, the rest of the large room features regular contraptions from lat pulldown machines to standard barbells. On the far side is an old but sturdy rock climbing wall, only occasionally in use. 

Bucky doesn’t know what it is - if it’s the lack of harsh fluorescent lights, or the fact that every single person who comes in here is either one of the Roshars or someone who’s lived in Brooklyn since before it was taken over by hipsters with deep pockets - but the 24 hour gym always feels warm and intimate. The round the clock opening hours sure helps create a welcoming environment.

He doesn’t usually make use of it in the dead of night, but Steve does, which is the only reason Bucky is even here. He’d woken up at 3 am to an empty bed, the sheets cold enough to tell him that Steve had gone on his frequent nightly treks. If he wasn’t making his way through a pack or two of smokes, he’d be burning energy by taking it out on a punching bag. 

Bucky took a guess and it paid off, because there Steve is in a corner sweating through a ratty dark grey t-shirt. The home gym they invested in a couple years ago did not work the way they wanted it to, namely have Steve shake off whatever it is eating at him at home, rather than leave the house when he should be sleeping.

Bucky weaves through the rows of machines, walking past a man in his 60s on the elliptical and a dark haired woman taking a break on a bench. Steve doesn’t hear him approach until he’s in arm’s reach, abruptly turning on his heels before realizing it’s his boyfriend and loosening up his stance. “Shit, honey, did I wake you?”

Steve’s asking like he’d just made too much noise in the next room over, or jostled the bed when trying to get up. He’d be annoyed if he didn’t know that they were just much too used to sleeping wrapped up in each other. “How long have you been here?”

Steve shrugs, unraveling the wraps around his hands in practiced motions. “Couple hours.” He comes in for a kiss hello on the corner of his mouth, and Bucky pretends to scrunch up his nose at how sweaty Steve is, causing the other man to laugh. “Aw, come on, you don’t usually mind.”

“Usually, we’re in the middle of something a little more exciting.”

Humming, he sidles up closer, smirking like he’s being the least bit subtle. “We can do that too.”

Bucky gently pushes his face away. “You’re filthy.” He turns to Steve’s partially wrapped hands, which had been abandoned halfway through, and finishes the job for him. “Go get cleaned up and we can get an early breakfast.” 

Steve lights up, quickly bounding over to the showers. Every once in a while, when either of them is too wound up to make it through the night, they go have breakfast while it’s still dark out and work their way through greasy diner food as the sun rises. Steve is always excited because it’s the only time he can convince Bucky to go all the way to the outskirts of New Jersey for his favorite diner.

The first time Steve took him there, Bucky had been extremely against the idea of going on an hour long drive to fucking Jersey just for some food, but he loved Steve so he gave it a chance. It did not disappoint. He stuffed himself so full of grease that he could feel it coating his face, but it was so worth it. 

It’s bewildering how the best diner - no one can convince him otherwise - is tucked away in a backroad off the highway leading to Jersey City, but they seem to get plenty of customers either way. Guess Steve himself is a testament that good food brings people from all around, even if he tries to convince the owner, Christine, to open her diner up in Brooklyn every time they visit.

Bucky finds a bench and makes himself comfortable, closing his eyes in the silent room. The only sounds reaching his ears are the muted roar of the shower and the hum of a single machine from across the large space. It’s peaceful here as it always is.

The quiet is broken unceremoniously by someone dropping what feels like a duffel bag full of bricks right next to him. Bucky wrenches his eyes open to find the dark haired woman he noticed earlier, still in the same sweats and hoodie. “This is your only gym,” she declares with no preamble.

“Uh,” Bucky looks around, but no one’s there for him to gauge this interaction by. Is this perfectly normal and it’s just way too early for him to catch on, or is he being accosted by an exceptionally strange woman? “Do I know you?” Now that he thinks about it, maybe she’s some kind of stalker. It’d track with her inexplicable announcement. 

“The logs say you come here pretty often, doesn’t look like you get a workout anywhere else.” Bucky looks down to examine himself. He doesn’t think he’s out of shape. Is that what she’s saying? His face must be conveying the mix of confusion and slight terror because she rolls her eyes, graciously telling him, “This is my gym. Relax.”

Bucky does not relax. Steve would hear him if he screamed, right? Would that guy in the corner help? This place seems like somewhere you would just turn a blind eye to some light stabbing. “What about Trish? I know she’s the owner.”

“We _both_ own it, dumbass.” Bucky’s still processing the words, muttering a faint _oh_ and wishing he had let himself make that second cup of coffee before leaving the house. “Look, if you’re gonna stick around you’re gonna have to tighten up.”

“Um, excuse me?” Daylight Bucky would be doing much better. Tell her to fuck off and mind her own business, probably. Current Bucky is wondering if he’s actually in bed cuddled by Steve and having a very vivid dream.

“I know you’re all about handling business the mature way, with words and all, but we both know Steve isn’t like that, so one of these days you’re going to wish you can take down a guy twice your size and it’ll be too little too late.” She’s telling him all this in a matter of fact drawl, looking almost bored and like she wishes she didn’t have to be talking to him in the first place. 

Well, who the fuck is making her? Bucky’s not a _small_ guy. Compared to Steve’s hulking body he's small _er_ , yes, but he’s got muscle, and while he’s on the leaner side, he’s plenty bulky. “Look, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are but-”

Steve comes out just in time, freshly showered and in very old jeans and a t-shirt that’s equally falling apart. “Jessica, hey,” he greets her with a kiss on the cheek, which is patented Steve Rogers friendly affection if there ever was one. “You’re still here?”

Jessica doesn’t return the greeting, which Bucky’s starting to gather is just how she _is_. “I’m trying to give your boyfriend some words of wisdom but he’s being kind of rude.”

“ _I’m_ being rude?!” Bucky’s tempted to show her how rude he can really be.

“I’m offering to train you in self-defense. Maybe you can keep this guy outta trouble a little longer,” she cocks her head at Steve. When in their encounter did that offer happen exactly?

“I’d take her up if I were you,” Steve advises, and Bucky has the urge to glare at him for taking someone else's side. Kind of - this whole thing really is too confusing for 3:30 am Bucky, he’s not even sure he’s in the middle of an argument. “She doesn’t offer to train just anyone.” He turns to Jessica, brows pulled together in a frown that Bucky can’t help but find adorable. “Actually, I thought you don’t do that anymore. Trish runs all the classes, right?”

Jessica shrugs, “I do what I want.” She shifts on her feet, not uncomfortable but more likes she’s physically weighing her words. “I like Brooklyn with you around, figured helping out your guy can only make things better.”

Steve’s eyes soften, and he pulls Jessica in for a side hug, which she halfheartedly tries to squirm out of but gives in to with a huff. Bucky realizes Steve’s treating her a bit like a kid sister, even more so than the way he is with Maia. “Aw, I always knew you liked me.” 

“Ugh, whatever,” Jessica crosses her arms, and raises a lazy eyebrow at Bucky. “So?”

He doesn’t know how she can look so nonchalant, like she’s doing him a favor just by giving him the time of day. _She’s_ the one asking to let her train him, for fuck’s sake. Bucky should be the one with the upper hand here, but she makes him feel like it’s not the case at all. He hopes learning how to do that is part of his training. He can definitely knock someone twice his size down a peg this way. “Fine.” The way Steve perks up like his two favorite people are finally meeting and getting along pulls at Bucky’s heartstrings, and he adds a touch more sincere, “Thanks.”

Jessica shrugs and leaves without a word, aside from, “Come by tomorrow.” He doesn’t even get a timeframe. 

“That’s great, Buck, you’re gonna learn a lot,” Steve drags him upright off the bench, shouldering his gym bag. 

“How have I never met her? I’ve only seen Trish around." Bucky’s not _bothered_ by how familiar Steve seems to be with someone he's never even heard about, but it is slightly disconcerting. He thought they were in every part of each other’s lives. 

Steve looks down at him, hearing the edge in his tone even after he tries to bury it under faux indifference. “Jessica keeps to herself," he tugs Bucky snug against his side as they walk, silent reassurance in the tight hold of his arms. “Only ever see her when I’m in here in the middle of the night.” His eyes track the cracks in the sidewalk once they're outside, trying to pick his words carefully. “You talked to her, she can be…”

“Unpleasant?” Bucky suggests.

“Prickly." Steve kisses the top of his head. “She doesn't really get around much. We kinda bonded over our insomnia when I first started coming here at night.” Bucky slides his arm around Steve’s waist, offering as much comfort as possible. “It ain’t my place to tell you her story, but she's been through a lot.” 

“Hmm,” Bucky rubs his cheek against the soft t-shirt across Steve’s chest. “Like a really depressing gym buddy.”

Steve snorts, going as far as clasping a hand over his mouth to hold in full blown laughs. “Kind of,” he finally calms down and admits. “Mostly she does her own thing in a corner and I bug her for a while, until she talks and hits her minimum range of social interaction and bolts. I’m surprised she offered to train you.”

Bucky smiles, overly sweet, “I can be charming.” He refuses to point out that Jessica sort of accosted him more than anything.

“Don’t I know it,” Steve leans down to capture Bucky’s lips, the warmth of his mouth spreading down his neck and engulfing his entire being until the chill of the night air is all but extinguished. “Let’s see if you can charm some extra maple syrup outta Christine.” Bucky harrumphs, knowing that’s a lost cause. Christine's a phenomenal cook, but she doesn’t believe in drowning her perfect fluffy pancakes in sweet syrupy condiments. Everyone’s got flaws.

◆

On their second anniversary last year, when they once again had zero plans less than 24 hours before the day actually dawns on them, Bucky suggested going back to the greek restaurant Steve got him into the year before. After a couple calls, they booked an otherwise impossible to get table and set a wonderful precedent. Bucky really isn’t the kind of person who needs something particularly special to celebrate loving his guy, but he wouldn’t turn down dinner at what has become his favorite restaurant.

Steve apparently knows the chef, because of course, and while they got to have a lengthy chat with Val the first time they met, things only got better from there. The second year they came in for their anniversary dinner, Val got them the chef’s table after drinks on the floor where they could get their fill of the restaurant's atmosphere over their first course. 

The chef’s table is a whole other level. He was worried that being in the midst of a bustling kitchen would make him anxious and unable to enjoy his meal, but instead, it was one of the greatest experiences he’d ever had. That’s not even considering the additional off the menu options they got to pick and try out. Val even cooked them up some experimental dishes she had been playing around with, evidently well aware of Steve’s bottomless stomach. 

Bucky had to resort to taking singular bites of everything they got served, treating Steve as the human garbage disposal that he is, and he had a great fucking time. They stayed for hours, gorging themselves on truly exquisite greek food and enjoying Val’s company every time she had a minute to spare. 

This year is no different. Steve already has their reservation at Val’s settled, and all they - or just Bucky, really - have to do is make enough room throughout the day for the culinary adventure the night is going to bring. 

Steve immediately fucks it up, waking Bucky with a mountain of breakfast foods alongside his scratchy kisses. “Mornin’, Buck,” he rumbles, lips trailing down the column of his neck and across his shoulders. Bucky hums in reply, clinging to sleep even as his body starts registering the feel of Steve against him. “Come on, honey, wake up, I got all sorts ‘a things for you.” 

He lays there for a long moment, trying to get his brain to participate. “Things?” One eye pops open. Scruffy Steve takes up his entire view, unruly beard and crooked nose in all their glory. Bucky’s never been more in love. 

“Food,” Steve declares, like he’s presenting Bucky with the best jewels he can get his hands on. Granted, Steve’s cooking might as well be better than diamonds. Bucky certainly ranks it above most worldly possessions. 

He finally unburies his face from the depths of their pillows, and immediately finds himself attacked by all 250 lbs of cuddly boyfriend nuzzling in and searching for kisses. He’s acting like Bucky wouldn’t voluntarily give up use of his lips to taste Steve’s for the rest of his life. Maybe he _doesn’t_ know that, so Bucky tells him as much. “Fuck, Steve, I’d give up talking just so I can kiss you forever.”

Steve’s eyes glint mischievously, smile turning sinful. “Aw, but then my dick will get lonely without your mouth.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky groans. “That was awful. Truly atrocious. Never say that again.” Steve full on giggles, not showing a shred of remorse. “But you’re right, I should at least take breaks to eat.” He pushes himself onto his elbows, peering towards the end of the bed where not one, not two, but three trays are waiting. 

“I made all your favorites,” he drags everything closer, and starts pointing out each dish like Bucky can’t see for himself. It’s incredibly cute how excited Steve is over his carefully planned out treat. He wonders how long Steve spent in the kitchen whipping everything up and painstakingly plating them - Bucky doesn’t miss the beautiful way every piece of food is arranged. 

Steve really is something else. “Are you fucking serious?” It’s a testament to how well they know each other that Steve doesn’t take his words the wrong way. 

“Oh, come on, dinner’s hours away,” he pouts. “Besides, it’s a special anniversary breakfast. Let me feed you some of my cooking before you leave me for Val,” he teases, and Bucky bursts out laughing. “I’m not dumb, honey, she's got all that,” he makes an indistinct gesture with his hands, “ _charisma_. And that hair, Jesus, I’m not blind. _And_ she cooks better than I do! Just a matter ‘a time before you she whisks you away to Greece and tempts you to stay.”

Bucky’s in stitches by the end of Steve's long-winded spiel, barely able to wheeze out, “Steve, it sounds more like _you_ want to have a greek getaway with Val.”

Steve’s cheeks color, and he grumbles, “Well, a guy can dream."

Giggles take over Bucky once more, and he places adoring kisses on the tops of Steve’s cheeks where they’re flushed a rosy hue. He never would have imagined loving someone so much that his affection for them can triple from hearing about their crush. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but I think Val’s gay.”

“Oh,” Steve actually perks up like he’s glad he won’t have to duel her for Bucky’s hand. 

He tangles their legs together, warming up his toes between Steve’s calves. “I think you’re stuck with me.”

“I could do worse,” Steve shrugs, like he doesn't spend nearly every night running his mouth, praising every inch of Bucky’s body like he’s worshipping at an altar. They lose time to each other’s lips and tongues for a while, but Steve breaks away when Bucky goes to improve their position for better access. “Wait, Buck, the food.”

Bucky sighs, having learned in the past three years that nothing really trumps food for Steve, but he can’t blame the guy - they get to eat some really amazing food. They have to be, if Steve’s turning down getting his dick wet so easily. Bucky knows he gives excellent head. “You know I love your cooking, Steve, but how is this any different than every other morning? You make me breakfast all the time.”

Steve scoffs, “But this is breakfast _in bed_.” 

“Yeah, you do that plenty too.” Bucky picks up a fork and hovers it over the many choices, from fruits to pastries to deep fried delicacies. 

“You sayin’ I should stop so this can be more special?” Steve raises an eyebrow, and directs Bucky’s fork to start with breaking the runny yolk on a perfectly cooked sunny side up. He grabs a piece of bacon and runs it through the mess, plopping it into his mouth. “But honey, look, I made the strawberries into roses!”

Bucky examines the fruit and _holy motherfucking shit Steve made the strawberries into roses_. “How the fuck?” He picks one up and brings it inches away from his eyes, scrutinizing the intricate patterns.

“I looked it up,” Steve takes the piece out from between his fingers and bites into it.

Bucky gasps, genuinely upset Steve took his strawberry and _crushed it into mush with his teeth_. “What did you just do?!”

Steve laughs, shoulders shaking with how much he’s trying to keep it in. “Buck, it’s for breakfast, you don’t gotta feel bad for eating it.” An involuntary hurt sound comes out of his mouth, because how is he supposed to eat all of this knowing that Steve must have spent so much time and energy making everything perfect. It’s not even the romantic notion of it all, but the _thought_ and _effort_ put into it. “It was fun,” Steve assures him, handing over another piece of elaborately designed fruit. “We can’t let it all go to waste, Buck. I’ll make you more roses next time.”

Bucky reluctantly bites into his pineapple, chewing slowly. “Okay,” he says once he swallows, trying to put the guilt out of his mind. “Hey,” he tugs at Steve's wrist, his thumb rubbing circles over the protruding bone. Steve looks at him, all smiles and sleep lines. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Steve pulls him in by the neck for a sticky kiss, the taste of berries clinging to their lips. “Love you.”

Bucky holds on longer when they part for breath, burying his fingers in Steve’s dark blonde hair, thumb sliding down into his beard. “I love you too.” He kisses the underside of his jaw, nosing down to breathe in the familiar woodsy scent. “Like crazy in love," he laughs, resting his forehead against the crook of Steve’s neck. Steve is so fucking ridiculous, with his cooking, and his art, and his saccharine words and gentle touches, and Bucky loves him just as much when he’s being a stubborn, short-tempered, asshole. “I can’t even tell you how much.”

Steve curls around him, mouth pressed against the side of his face. “I think I got an idea.”

“Fucking strawberry roses, Steve. You’re killing me here.” The feeling of Steve’s laugh underneath him is the most precious thing he knows.

◆

Jessica downs the last third of her fruity mocktail and slams the glass down onto the bar, wiping off her lips with the back of her hand. If Bucky had known she was sober, he never would’ve invited her to Tapped. Or, more likely, he would've told Luke and Matt to meet them somewhere else. Jessica told him that it was cool and to _shut up already I can go to a fucking bar without falling off the wagon_ , so he took her at her word. She was right of course, it was fine, but he still feels guilty. 

Bucky’s been reluctantly charmed by Jessica Jones. She’s blunt, brash, and not often very nice, but she’s a genuinely good person. There’s not a lot of that going around. In the past month that she’s trained him in self-defense, she’s pushed him to his limits and taught him countless things that he’s sure is going to save his life - or at least lessen some considerable pain. 

She’s rough around the edges, as Steve had implied, but it’s the kind that Bucky’s all too familiar with. He sees her kind of hurt every day, in the people in his life and sometimes in himself. They're all a little fucked up. 

So when, after a training session - which he still doesn't know how he snagged because Jessica apparently _really_ doesn’t interact with absolutely anyone at the gym - he had plans to meet up and hang with Luke and Matt, he invited and cajoled her to come along. She could use a couple new friends. Spending her days, or nights, with just her business partner, Trish, and insomniac Steve sounds less than ideal.

It took some coaxing but she eventually agreed, and things had gone well enough. They all got along, his friends instantly charmed by Jessica’s barbed aloofness. “You okay there?” Luke asks when Jessica gets up once she pushes the glass away. 

“Yeah, I’m good.” She grabs her jacket and throws it on, untucking her hair from the collar. “I'm also done. Good to meet you.” 

Just like that she's gone. Luke and Matt turn to him as one, and Bucky sheepishly says, “She doesn't really do goodbyes.” He volunteers, “Probably hit her social limit. This was great for her, she was practically _sweet_.”

“You have weird friends these days,” Matt remarks, going back to his piece of chicken wing. The bar isn’t too crowded, seeing as it’s 10 am on a Saturday. In the two months Tapped has been open, it’s been doing particularly well, a moderate crowd every night and a filled room on the weekends. Bucky’s impressed. Luke’s balanced the menu and atmosphere between after work patrons and regulars looking to unwind on Saturday nights. Part of it is also because of the considerable Roshars presence in the area, and their tendency to stay loyal to their favorite dining establishments, but his friend did a good job nonetheless.

“Eh," Bucky shrugs. “Jessica’s more Steve’s friend than mine. She’s cool, though." 

Luke puts away the limes he’s handling behind the bar, moving onto organizing cherries. “You hang out with a pretty different crowd than I remember.” Bucky raises his eyebrow, and demonstratively looks around the bar that’s standing in large part because of his so-called crowd. “That’s different, I’m as much tangled up in that shit as Abuela Nella from down the block.”

To be fair, most of the borough is involved with the Brooklyn Irish one way or another, so Luke has a point, but just to be difficult, Bucky points out, “Abuela Nella’s cake shop is a front.”

Luke hangs his head in defeat, while Matt laughs at him. “Luke, how did you not know that? Have you tried her pastelitos? It’s so dry and bland, even the filling is awful. How would she stay in business this long?” He shakes his head in disappointment. “That store's been around since we were in grade school.”

“Okay, whatever, I'm stupid and you’re very selective about your pastelitos-” Luke straightens up, clearly gearing up for something, but Matt’s back on his pastry rant.

“The filling is the easiest part! It’s mushed up fruit! I get messing up the dough, the whole laminating process can be hard to pull off if your butter’s-”

“Matt,” Luke cuts him off. “You can lecture Abuela Nella herself about her skills, but that wasn't my point.” Matt grunts in reluctant acceptance, shoving more barbecue dipped chicken into his mouth. 

“Well, I was mostly hanging around my sisters and _their_ crowd, what was I supposed to do once Alice left the nest? I made new friends.” He puts on an overly sweet smile, lightly batting his lashes. “It’s not like you were around to keep me out of trouble.”

His tone must be obvious because Matt mimes gagging, exaggerated and loud. Luke just rolls his eyes and tries to swat at Bucky with a dishtowel. He’s always been grateful that his friendship with Luke never became strained, even after their short time dating before graduation. It’s always fun to bring it up and tease Luke when he gets the chance. “You’re way out of my league now,” Luke asserts.

“What are you talking about?” Bucky asks in some measure of outrage. “I mean, you were jacked before, but, oof, look at those arms,” he wiggles his eyebrows. The thing about Luke is that while he’s confident and somewhat self-assured, he also takes compliments as well as a pre-pubescent teenager.

“Okay, take it down a notch,” Matt nudges his glass towards Luke for a refill. “It’s like senior year all over again with you two.” He takes a sip of the still frothy beer once it’s in his hands, and wipes off the excess on a napkin. “Besides, what would Mr. Righteous say about you flirting with an ex?”

Bucky waves off the concern. “Psh, Luke’s not just an ex, he’s my friend. And Steve doesn’t treat me like that.” 

Luke makes a disbelieving noise. “Yeah, well, as long as I don’t end up gutted in my sleep.”

Bucky scowls. “He really isn’t what you’re making him out to be. Don’t you know anything about Steve?” He would think the nickname Mr. Righteous speaks for itself.

Luke considers him for a long minute, and ends up with, “I think you grew up on much nicer stories of Steve Rogers than I did.”

“I don’t think that's true.” It isn’t. The stories he was told were never sunshine and rainbows, and if it was sugar coated, then the reality couldn’t have been much worse than what he'd already heard. "Maybe I just have more first hand experience than you do."

“It was your mom, right?" Matt asks, perceptive as always. “I’m sorry about her, I don’t think I was in town for the funeral.” Bucky’s Ma passed when he was still a freshman in college, and his 18 year old self was particularly bad at arranging an adequate funeral and inviting everybody. It was the first of many times he lost his shit over how he was supposed to handle everything when he was barely an adult himself. 

A couple of his mom’s friends had helped out, but it was still a small service. “Thanks,” he tells Matt anyway, bumping their elbows together. 

“I didn’t know that about your mom," Luke admits, and turns to Matt. “How did _you_ know?” Bucky would like to hear about this himself. As he had discovered when he first started working for the Roshars, even Becca was in the dark about their Ma’s occasional work. 

“Someone came by once when I was over for dinner with you and your sisters. Kind of overheard them and put two and two together,” Matt shrugs. “It wasn't that surprising, half the people we knew kind of worked for them at the time.”

Luke gives a noncommittal grunt. “How are your sisters, anyway? Did you say Alice left for college?”

That prompts Bucky to launch into an overly zealous recounting of Alice's accomplishments, sounding so much like a starry eyed parent that both Luke and Matt tease him mercilessly. He refuses to backtrack on his word because in his eyes, his baby sister is a gymnastics prodigy, he’s so fucking proud. He can’t believe she’s already got a degree under her belt, graduating just last month. He shows his friends pictures of them at the ceremony, and it’s all pretty bittersweet.

It’s more than nice to spend time with people who’s known him and his family since he was a kid himself, and live in that feeling of ease born out of years of watching each other grow up. He’d met up for drinks with Luke and Matt a few times since they reconnected, and he hopes to keep it up for the foreseeable future. Maybe they’ll warm up to Steve in time. Everybody else does.

◆

The road is uneven. That’s the story he’s sticking to.

Something about the way Steve is pursing his lips to keep from laughing tells him that his boyfriend wouldn’t back him up in any retelling of this day - and there will be lots of that, he already knows. 

Steve had driven them upstate, to find a stretch of road that was empty in the midweek afternoon. They lucked out with an area surrounded by trees on both sides, and exactly zero cars passing through in the past hour they’ve been around. Thank fuck, or else Bucky would have been flattened mush by now. He just knows anyone driving down would be pushing 120mph. His only solace is Steve’s literal superhuman reflexes.

Bucky resettles himself across the bench, feeling the shape of the motorbike underneath mold against his thighs. It should _not_ be this hard. He knows every crevice of this Harley, quite literally put it together- well, not alone, but definitely with his own two hands and only the occasional help from Grieves. 

He’s familiar with riding a motorbike when he’s wrapped around Steve, leaning when he leans and getting used to how he’s supposed to hold himself. So maybe sometimes he zones out and gets distracted by groping Steve’s torso, whatever, he’s weak. Still, he should be better at getting the hang of actually driving himself. 

Of course, his failure doesn’t seem to change the fact that it turns out Steve’s got a _thing_ for him with roaring machinery between his legs. Go figure. “Goddamn, Buck,” Steve rumbles, nuzzling into Bucky’s neck in that affectionate way he gets when he’s overwhelmed. “Looked fuckin’ good out there, honey.” Bucky laughs, and tugs on his hair until Steve pulls back and gets the full force of his raised eyebrows. “What? You got no leg to stand on, you’ve asked to fuck on my bike multiple times.”

“Hmm,” Bucky tilts his head in thought. “And you did say yes every time, guess that makes sense.” He pushes Steve’s caressing hands away, even if he’s tempted to fool around and take a break from ruining his new riding pants against the asphalt. “Come on, Steve, tell me how to do this better.”

“Okay, you gotta relax,” Steve lays a large palm against his shoulder, pushing it down from where it’s apparently been slowly inching up to his ears. His other hand is on the bike, as if Bucky can’t even balance it on his own when they’re at a standstill. He knows he’s being irritable out of frustration with himself, but he can’t help it.

“I swear to whatever the fuck is watching over our universe, Steven, if you tell me to relax _one_ more time-” Steve cuts him off by kissing the frown in between his brows, and it’s such a familiar move that _Bucky_ usually employs when Steve’s got his stubborn face on that he just gapes, not the slightest bit irritated. “Did you just-” Uncontrollable giggles erupt out of him, and Steve doesn’t look regretful as he does sheepish. “Taking a page out of my own book, huh?” He grants Steve a real kiss, only a chaste brush of lips because he can’t resist.

“You just looked so angry,” Steve mumbles, the tops of his ears flushed. He can’t believe _this_ is what’s making Steve blush in earnest. “It usually works on me.”

Bucky laughs some more, resting his head against Steve’s chest to catch his breath for a second. “I guess now we know it’s foolproof for both of us.” He takes a deep breath and refocuses on the task at hand. “Steve, if you got me a bike and I spent almost three goddamn years on it just to crash whenever I _try_ to make it down the street, I’m gonna be really fucking pissed.”

Steve rubs at his back, in some attempt at calming him down. “Maybe you can just fix up bikes, you like that part, right?” Bucky glares at him, mouth parted in offense. They _have_ been at this for a while, but he didn’t actually think Steve had no faith that he’d learn, the asshole. “No, hey,” Steve backtracks like he can read Bucky’s mind. “I just meant that- That you’re so good at that part and so _obviously_ you’ll nail this too, you can do any-“

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky rolls his eyes, and checks the position of his feet one more time. “Ever think you’re just not great at showing me how to do this, teach?” 

Steve clears his throat and shifts around a bit, and a smirk quickly forms on Bucky’s face. “Well that’s something to explore,” he teases, though he fully means it. “I can’t believe we haven’t even tried that. You always get off on authority.” 

“Bucky, focus,” Steve readjusts his grip on the handle.

“Hey, I’m not the one with problems focusing right now.” He does let it go, because his muscles are starting to get tired propping up the giant bike - the Harley is a considerable beast. He doesn’t know if Steve forgot that Bucky isn’t as big as he is when making the purchase or what. That seems unlikely, though, Steve’s anything but inconsiderate. Reason must have told him that someone of Bucky’s size would be able to handle the bike just fine. Steve just never accounted for his absolute incompetence once he gets on the road.

“Honey, I don’t know what to tell you other than you’ve gotta go in thinking you’re gonna ride just fine and maintain your balance.” Steve gets ready at his side to bolt after him when he inevitably tilts sideways and crashes, his normal than average speed a big win for today’s activities. 

“Huh,” Bucky lets out. “I think you really are just a bad teacher. That weirdly makes me feel better.” It’s not that much of a surprise. When he asked Steve to walk him through making one of his intricate recipes once, the majority of that time was a lot of being told to _just do it like you’d normally cook_ , and _oh my god what are you doing_ , and finally _you know what just shove over_ , and not a lot if instructing.

Steve sighs, resting his forehead on Bucky’s shoulder. “The only thing comparable to teaching someone that I’ve done is bein’ commander officer in the field, and let me tell you, that’s just a lotta ordering men around.”

Bucky presses his lips against Steve’s temple once, and declares, “Tell you what, you get me riding this bike before sundown and we’ll try out that teacher thing tonight.” Steve straightens up like a slingshot, new determination coming over his face like a mask. Bucky laughs, eyes twinkling in amusement. “Aw, see, you just needed the right incentive.”

Steve only acknowledges his words by nipping on his lips and parting them with his own, pulling a groan out of Bucky and relaxing him further into the warm leather seat underneath him. “You’re the best incentive there is, Buck.” There’s too much sincerity in his voice for Bucky not to melt, even if he is scrunching up his nose. 

“Alright, hotshot, show me the ropes again.” They end up going a few more times before Bucky makes it any significant distance without falling, and he gets so giddy when he realizes the growing gap from the starting line that he loses his balance and falls all over again. He’s smiling ear to ear when Steve comes to his rescue, though, all concerned and fussy.

Bucky wanted to call it a day and at least be able to say that he made _some_ progress, but Steve insisted that they go a few more rounds and see if he can go farther. Turns out, he can. After another hour of Steve actually correcting some of the things he was still doing wrong, he’s gone a couple laps successfully. 

He should really just accept that Steve always pushes him to be better. He hopes he does the same in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean its Christmas and this chapter absolutely doesn't line up with real world dates? Let’s pretend that’s not bugging the hell out of me.
> 
> Opinions? Observations? Remarks? Feel free to share!  
> More coming soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we make some progress.
> 
> You’ve got Beta Meraki_Moli to thank for polishing up this chapter.

Clint’s face when they come rolling up in a steel gray luxury Ram truck is comical, to say the least. As Bucky rolls down the window, his playlist streams out and provides the perfect background to him announcing, “We’re gonna Bob Vila this shit!” Steve sighs as he pulls into the driveway, resigned to Bucky’s jovial mood today.

Once the car’s in park, Bucky unbuckles his seatbelt and jumps out, slamming the car door behind him. Clint laughs at his ensemble, full on coveralls in a dark grey that brings out his eyes. Overalls might have been a more appropriate getup, but he’s always wanted to rock the mechanic look - Steve didn’t seem to mind either. 

“Dude, when you said you’d help me redo my greenhouse, I didn’t think you were bringing a whole damn truck! Do you actually have supplies back there or is this an aesthetic thing?” Clint slowly saunters over, peeking to get a look at the interior and its leather upholstery. Bucky doesn’t know if Clint’s asking because he knows it’s the kind of thing he would do, or if he still doesn’t think Steve’s serious about helping.

Steve steps out and locks up, heading to the cargo bed. “Nah, we got everything you’ll need.” He opens up the back, and starts hauling out a pile of uniform cut wood, canvas, a tarp, and a large toolbox. “Picked up some soil and pots too.”

Clint takes the toolbox and leads them onto the property. “Man, I didn’t mean for you to get all this. This is insane.” He bypasses the front door and walks around the side of the house. “You have to let me foot the bill.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky dismisses him. “Steve’s gonna have a blast. This is like Disneyland for him.” Clint laughs, but tries to protest. “Seriously, just let us raid your fridge for snacks. We’ll end up owing you by the end of the day.”

Clint visibly swallows down further arguments, and gestures them to the greenhouse attached to the side patio. His house is a one story in Queens, with a large backyard and permanent greenhouse as an extension through the side door. The structure is an assembly of glass windows with dark wood trimming, blending effortlessly with the rest of the house like it’s always been part of the building. It’s impressive, especially knowing that not too long ago Clint’s greenhouse was a temporary structure in a separate area of the backyard. 

Walking through the back entrance, they’re immediately hit with the humidity, jarring but not unpleasant. Stacks of plants in various types of containers line the walls, waiting to be placed in their new homes. Bags of soil, fertilizer, and seeds are put away in a corner near the door leading inside the house. “Wow, this place is nice and big,” Steve takes in the area, finding some free space to set down the pile of wood. “I was thinking we could build some shelving for all the plants, and designate areas based on whatever your system is.”

“Uh, yeah,” Clint puts the toolbox near the appliances he’s already got. “All I came up with was arranging everything on those ledges on the windows, but your idea sounds great.” 

“Awesome,” Steve bounces on his heels, looking around the large room, and points back to the truck. “I’ll get everything back here.” He bounds out the door to carry in the supplies, the skip in his step unmistakeable. 

Clint glances at Bucky sideways, amused and a touch disbelieving. “Hey, I told you, this is his idea of a good time.” 

The truth is, while Steve _does_ enjoy redoing a space and making a project out of it, he’s also doing this specifically because he wants to make an effort to build some kind of relationship with Clint. Bucky thinks it’d be a great idea for him to make a friend in the Avengers, but Steve had pretty transparently confessed that he’s more interested in getting to know the guy because he’s Bucky’s friend. Well, whatever the reason, Steve’s trying, so Bucky’s proud of him. 

“I don’t know what I was expecting, really.” Clint shrugs. “I just didn’t imagine Steve with any-,” he seems to catch himself, realizing who he’s talking to. “I, uh,” he clears his throat. “DIdn’t imagine anything.”

Bucky doesn’t linger on the moment, busying himself with pulling down the zipper on his coveralls because it’s goddamn warm inside - he might have made a mistake with his fashion choice. 

As much as he occasionally needles Steve about building bridges with his teammates, it doesn’t escape his notice that they don’t think much of him. It’s baffling, that they can take orders from Captain Rogers and obviously see the way his mind works on the field, and yet see nothing but a puppet in Steve Rogers. 

He walks up to the patio, and sees the kitchen through the glass doors. “How ‘bout I whip up those snacks?”

Bucky makes himself busy in the kitchen, taking Clint at his word that he’s welcome to any and everything in the pantry and fridge. Clint and Steve look to be organizing their supplies and awaiting plants, and then going through plans on Steve's notebook. He takes his time putting together an assortment of junk food, chips and nachos and fries. With Clint’s - suspicious but readily given - permission, he raids the liquor cabinet to concoct a cocktail, fruity and ice cold. 

He brings it over to the patio in the greenhouse once they're ready, and internally laughs at the image he makes: a spouse providing food and beverages for his husband working on a project in the backyard. It’s so silly he catches himself laughing out loud. Steve looks at him in question, looking happy as always to hear him laugh, and Bucky can’t help but give him a peck to settle down the incessant squeezing in his chest. Ugh, that’s just ramping up the idyllic suburban snapshot. 

Clint and Steve are looking over a sketch detailing the new configuration of the room, a design that maximizes the space available and easily sections off different kinds of plants. With the high shelves and mobile free standing tables, there should be some extra room and even a cabinet for tools.

“Buck, can you figure out the calculations?” Steve passes him the plans and a pen, and he gets to work. He might have a boozy slushie in one hand and a cheese covered corn chip in the other, but he’s always ready to do the legwork on whatever Steve hands over. That’s basically his whole job - doing the books while eating. Dani isn’t the one supplying them with endless treats here, but he’ll make do with his own concoctions. 

Steve goes to build the shelves, and Clint follows his instructions. He constructs everything based on the calculation Bucky dictates from his sprawl on the patio, sipping on a drink and munching on snacks. Clint makes the rare trip over for some water and a taste of his cocktail, trying to combat the heat from moving around so much in the humidity. Steve, on the other hand, needs to be reminded to come over and rehydrate. 

He can hear Clint tell Steve all about each of the plants they’re repotting, and Steve shares that he’s been using the plants Bucky gets from him for a still life or two. Bucky can feel his heart grow two sizes from how sincerely Steve’s making an effort, volunteering stories of himself without real prompting.

“Where’d you learn to do all this?” Clint eventually asks.

Steve usually brushes off most questions about himself, but this time he doesn’t deflect as he does with people not considered in the know. “Just from helping out over the years.” That’s not even a lie, it’s exactly how Steve learned anything growing up. “And, you know,” he rubs the back of his neck, “always liked figuring out how to work with layouts and spaces.” 

“Like design stuff? You and Bruce are always talking about those art books.” Clint’s not as awkward in attempting to bond, but his best shot based around the mere scraps of knowledge he’s got on Steve is almost painful to watch. “Always thought maybe you went to art school or something.”

Steve huffs a laugh, “Nah, that ain’t for me.” He and Clint heave the finished shelf up against the wall, each ledge perfectly in line with the trimming on the glass. It looks perfect. He beams proudly at Clint, probably to ask what he thinks, to find the shorter blonde drenched in sweat and looking worn out. “Shit, Clint, go take a break, I’ll do the next row.” 

Clint tries to catch his breath and, as Bucky gathers from the waving motions of his hand, dismiss the concern, but fails spectacularly when he can’t even get another word out. “Go,” Steve shoos him away, brows furrowed in concern. “Buck, you gonna just sit nice and pretty? Come get your hands dirty, the plan’s all done.”

Bucky leans forward on his forearms, batting his lashes, “Aw, you calling me pretty?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “I sure ain’t callin’ you nice.”

Clint flops down onto the patio steps next to him, leaning back on his elbows after downing a bottle of water. Bucky pops a chip in his mouth before getting up, and immediately loses his balance. “Whoa,” Clint scrambles up to steady him, but Steve’s already by his side to prop him up in a flash. “Man, you okay?”

“Um,” Bucky blinks, and lets Steve lower him back onto the ground. His eyes flick over to the pitcher, and realizes that he might have accidentally drank half of it on his own. Steve follows his line of sight, and scowls in disapproval. “Sorry," he grimaces. “It was just so hot, I wanted something to cool down.”

Steve smooths down his hair and kisses it, like he’s actually hurt and not just stupid enough to get day drunk when he’s supposed to be working with power tools. “Drink some water and finish your food,” he drags the platter closer to Bucky, and goes so far as to press a new bottle of water in his palm. 

Clint just laughs when he realizes that Bucky’s unfortunate mishap is due to inebriation and nothing actually serious. “I'll get us more water,” he says between sniggers, and heads inside. Bucky pouts at Steve when he doesn't let up on the glower, and sure enough, gets a kiss on his bottom lip as a result. 

“Ugh, it’s the humidity," Bucky complains, unzipping his coveralls further and undoing the top half to wrap around his waist. “I hate it, I'm all sweaty.” Steve pointedly looks down at his own partially drenched t-shirt, and Bucky rolls his eyes. “You're like sexy sweaty, I’m all gross and dehydrated.” 

Steve does finally laugh at him, lips pulled wide in a smile, and peppers placating kisses across his temple. “I don’t know, honey, you look real good to me,” he runs his eyes down Bucky’s bare chest, which earns him a shove.

“Back to work,” Bucky orders, and Steve backs up with a blinding grin and returns to the half assembled shelves. Clint comes back not only with bottles of water, but also a new pitcher of non-alcoholic iced tea. “Oh god yes, gimme,” Bucky’s quick to reach out for one of the mismatched glasses, which Clint promptly fills up and hands over.

“I can’t believe you guys are literally building the interior of my greenhouse,” Clint confesses as he settles back down. 

“Well,” Bucky tilts his head to the side. “At this point I think we can agree that _Steve_ is building the interior of your greenhouse. I’m just enjoying the view.” Clint hums in acknowledgement. 

He watches Steve sing under his breath as he works, hips swaying to the indistinct tune playing in his head as he moves around arranging plants on shelves lining the far wall all the way up to the ceiling. He happily carries on, seemingly without tiring himself out like Clint did after the first hour. Bucky guides him on the different measurements and placements of one plank of wood or another, the two of them checking between the drawn up plans and pieces installed every few steps. 

“Huh,” a voice behind them breathes out, and Bucky jumps in surprise. He turns to find Kate, Clint’s sister, leaning on the partially open doorway. “I come home and Captain America’s doing our landscaping.”

“I don’t know if this counts as landscaping,” Clint mutters, and holds up a fry in offer. Kate takes it without question, blob of mustard and all. “I thought you were out all day?” he asks. 

Kate pulls up her long dark hair with a hair tie around her wrist, gesturing vaguely inside. “Yeah, I was just grabbing something on my way to America’s.” She turns to him with a polite smile, eyeing his clothes. “Nice coveralls. Bucky, right?”

Bucky nods, and juts his chin out at her shoes, a detailed spaceship impressively hand drawn with a sharpie adorning the sides. “I like your shoes.” She beams a thank you and says her goodbyes, glancing at Steve one last time before leaving out the door in no time. “How old is Kate again?”

Clint lets out a long sigh, muttering, “Nineteen," like he can’t really believe it. Bucky can relate.

“I know how you feel. Alice is 21 now and she’s living with her bassist boyfriend in Boston.” Clint cackles, joyfully finding pleasure in his discomfort. Bucky gulps down more iced tea before filling his glass back up. “I swear to god, I’m getting an ulcer just thinking about her all the way over there.” He squints at the piece Steve is handling, and interjects, “Steve, you want the medium sized shelf on top for that side.” He sighs, “I still remember doing her pigtails as an eight year old.” 

“Tell me about it,” Clint mumbles. Bucky knows he and Kate are half siblings, Clint finding her in the foster system when she was seven and somehow working it out to foster her himself. They’d bonded over raising teenage girls and being helplessly out of their depth, no matter how many blogs try to help with words of wisdom. Bucky’s really glad he found a friend in Clint, because he doesn’t really have anyone to talk to who’s also a pseudo parent to their kid sister.

“Don’t send her to college, that’s my advice,” Bucky jokes. “They'll get even smarter and go off to train and be a professional gymnast, leaving you all alone, and you can’t even be mad about it cause you’re too busy being proud and teary.” Clint gives him a look, and he reluctantly says, “Okay, not that exactly, but she _will_ end up with a bassist boyfriend.”

“Kate’s gay, and dating America,” Clint reminds him, and Bucky sulks that he can't even commiserate with his friend about being weird and uneasy about their baby sisters’ partners _even though he’s really trying to not be an asshole of an older brother._ At least he’d never project those feelings onto Alice _or_ her boyfriend - that he’ll make sure of. “Kate’s going to NYU anyway, she’s starting her sophomore year.”

“No shit,” Bucky blinks in surprise. Now that he thinks about it, he does remember Pete mentioning something about America going to community college. He feels so old, even though he’s in his goddamn prime. There’s just something about the kid you raised graduating college that really ages you. Even _Clint_ is looking after someone still in school, and he’s closer to Steve’s age than Bucky’s. Fuck, he needs to stop thinking about this. 

Bucky spikes his iced tea with a splash of leftover cocktail, hoping Steve doesn’t catch on. He’s benched for good anyway, what’s the harm? “Leave the bottom open, Steve,” he calls out. “That’ll be where the cabinet goes.”

“You guys work well together,” Clint comments, sedately working through the fries covered in mustard. 

“Hmm,” Bucky doesn’t offer any arguments, because he’s worked with Steve for years now and it’s not a secret that they’re a well oiled machine. There's no point in denying it, especially because it's something they’ve built and are proud of. Their partnership is solid and mostly healthy - he can only hope most people's relationships are as well founded.

Clint knocks their knees together, making Bucky turn and look him in the eye. “Thanks for this,” he says sincerely. “I honestly wasn’t expecting all of this when you guys offered help.” 

Bucky shrugs. “It was all Steve. He commits to things, goes all in. ” Clint nods, a thoughtful look coming over his face. 

“Guess I better go back and help out.” Clint heaves himself back onto his feet, grabbing a couple bottles of water. “We can’t all lounge around and snack while their boyfriend does all the work,” he teases, and Bucky eloquently flips him off. He’s content on being director of this home improvement project, keeping an eye on progress and making sure they don’t make too many mistakes that need to be taken apart later on. 

Clint laughs, leaving him to join Steve and hand over one of the bottles. Bucky sits back and watches the two of them talk, laughing at some quip Clint makes about the row of dying aloe vera plants. He can already see his friend acting a tad warmer to Steve. Not that he was ever cold, but there was always a layer of separation between Steve and his teammates - say, a shield. 

Steve’s right, to an extent. Clint getting to know him as Bucky’s boyfriend might be the best way to build any kind of real friendship between the two, separate from the Avengers. Steve may have meant it in a sappy way, if his declaration of _I’m doin’ this for you, honey, wanna get along with your friends_ is any indication, and in a _I don’t give a flying fuck about making friends with my teammates_ kind of way. Well, regardless, the end result’s going to be Clint seeing him as a guy without a uniform, so he’s counting this as a step in the right direction.

◆

△

The kitchen island is covered in pieces of homemade pasta. Bucky shuffles over clutching his laptop and notebook, looking like he’s wondering where the fuck he’s supposed to carve out a spot. Clara claimed a corner before the hostile culinary takeover happened; the flour marks an unmistakable outline around her things. Dani is settled near the counter, switching between updating Steve on work and telling Sam whatever he’s doing is wrong and will most definitely ruin his lovingly planned meal.

And Sam, well, he’s the entire reason they all might as well be banished to the living room. Next week is his and Riley’s tenth year anniversary, and he’s determined to recreate a very specific ravioli they had on their first date. The restaurant’s long gone by now but Sam’s got the taste of that meal seared into his mind - if he’s to be believed. 

Dani’s helping, suggesting ingredients for the filling that might be what Sam’s described. Steve’s _trying_ to add his own two cents, but according to Sam he’s eyeing the selection of various raviolis too intently to be trusted. He pulls Bucky in by the waist, partly to keep his hands busy and hopefully curb the inevitable moment when he swipes one of the raviolis and wreaks havoc. “Maybe you should just sit on my lap,” he teases.

That not only piques Bucky’s interest, but also Sam’s, who exclaims, “Keep that shit outta my kitchen, I’m so close to getting this recipe right.”

“I think you mean _my_ kitchen,” Steve helpfully reminds him, and is wondering himself why they’re doing this in his house. Sam pays him no mind. He does, however, move some of the ravioli away, evidently preferring Bucky take up some of the counter space to watching him get all up on Steve right next to his pasta.

Dani keeps Sam from adding an inadvisable amount of garlic into one of the mixtures, replacing the ingredient with ricotta cheese instead, and returns his attention to Steve. “Fenn is delaying her project. Says her guys are caught up in some other things and won’t be available for a couple months.”

Steve watches Bucky pull up his Captain America email, and spares a glance Dani’s way. “What, she doesn’t have a handle on her own guys?” Dani shrugs, but they both know the real answer to that. “If she’s got something on the side,” Steve sighs, swiping a hand over his face. “Please tell me it’s at least not in Brooklyn.”

“It’s not,” Clara chimes in. “But she still should have told us.”

“If she’s not telling us, then it’s messy enough she knows we’d cut ties,” Sam spells out. Steve clenches his jaw, and hums in reluctant agreement. 

Dani dices a second tomato, adding it to the bowl at Sam’s elbow. “I’ll get someone else to take over by tomorrow. Do you want her off everything?” Steve nods, eyes tired. Sometimes being the head of the Roshars that _isn’t_ running the organization on a day to day basis just means he gets the damage control part of the job. He can’t imagine what things must have been like for Rita before he came back home, though the state of things back in 2012 is telling enough. “How long before we work with her again?”

“Couple years after she shakes off whatever’s takin’ up her time. I don’t want us touching it with a ten foot pole,” Steve grumbles. 

Sam clears his throat, and from his body language, Steve knows this is going to be more bad news. “Rafter’s not showing his face.” Steve groans. Evan Rafter is the man behind Rafter Rounds, one of the biggest paper manufacturers, and an occasional attendee of the Roshars’ high stakes poker games.

“Can we find him?” Steve asks. Clara signals a yes, not even a second of hesitation. “Send a couple guys, get what we can. Then tell him to show up and pay the rest of his debts or we start axing accounts from businesses in the borough.” It’s kind of par for the course to leverage income from the area when they need to, but with a name as big as Rafter’s, the order better be coming from Steve or Rita. 

Sam nods like it’s what he expected, and returns to his third row of raviolis. “The new community center’s reporting really good numbers,” Dani brings the mood back up. “The classes are filling up well, even though it’s mostly younger kids.” No matter what decade it is, it’s always like pulling teeth to get teenagers to participate in anything remotely related to community building.

“Well, that’s something,” Steve breathes out. He peers over Bucky’s laptop screen, and points out a request for him to pose for _Men’s Health_. “What, did they miss the part where I was jacked up with performance-enhancing drugs or is that the kind of thing we’re advocating now?”

Bucky elbows him as he composes a swift and polite _no but thanks you moron_ in reply - Steve’s always been able to read between the lines of Bucky’s niceties. He’s right, though. Whether it be Captain America or Steve Rogers, he’s the last person who should be on the cover of that magazine. “Shut up and eat your stolen pasta, Steve,” Bucky gestures at the table. “You’ve got your job and I’ve got mine.”

Sam narrows his eyes at him, obviously catching wind of Bucky’s words. “I didn’t!” He vehemently claims. “I swear, go count your precious raviolis, I didn’t steal shit.” He glares at Bucky, who has to bite down on his lip to keep from laughing, the little pot stirrer. Steve would mess with Bucky back by pretending to be mad but he’s always too easily swayed into a forgiving mood with enough kisses, and Bucky _always_ uses kisses. He’s such a cheat.

Of course, it’s also fun to watch Sam count out his methodically constructed food and wonder if any one of them were swapped with a decoy by a hungry friend. Sam fishes out a perfectly boiled piece from the first row, and blows on it to get it cool enough to eat so he can start narrowing things down. 

“Question,” Sam poses to, presumably, Dani, looking over the bite he just had and the thirty options laid out on the table. “What’s a green vegetable that _looks_ and _tastes_ like spinach, but isn’t spinach? Because I think it might’ve been something else.” The horrified _are you fucking kidding me_ coming across Dani’s face is so terrifying Steve shuffles Bucky and Clara away from the area before all hell breaks loose.

▽

◆

Bucky zips up the back of his skirt properly, glad he opted for the better quality of his two options. The thick fabric is soft against his skin, wool that doesn’t itch like crazy. He’s all ready to go at this point, but he can still hear Steve cursing at himself as he changes in the bedroom. “Steve? The fuck are you doing?”

He ventures out of their ensuite, and finds Steve half into a dark green satin shirt. “Um,” Steve’s voice garbles through. “I think it’s gonna rip if I move.” Bucky rolls his eyes, still surprised at how he ended up with such a goof. 

“Why didn’t you unbutton the whole thing?” Bucky strolls over, and helps pull the shirt further down and over his head, arms finally making it through the sleeves. 

Steve looks sheepish when his face surfaces out of the glossy fabric, but the expression soon turns into something else entirely when he takes in Bucky’s costume. When Matt invited him and Becca to a Halloween party at his apartment, he made Bucky promise to go as something fun, and not phone it in. It’s as if Matt didn’t know him at all. 

He went through a few couples costumes, before deciding on Velma and Daphne. He asked Steve if he could scrounge up something for a modern Daphne look, and the guy had just shrugged and said, “I’m sure I’ve got stuff in my closet,” so Bucky had left it at that. Steve wasn’t lying. Bucky’s never seen it before, but the older man is in a pair of dark purple linen pants, noticeably tailored specifically for him, perfect lines molded onto his legs. The dark green satin shirt shines in the light without looking gaudy, and next to Bucky, it’s plain as day who he’s trying to channel.

Bucky, well, he went for a more faithful approach. His dark orange pleated skirt is just long enough to fall to the tops of his thighs, the waistband barely brushing the cropped tight fitting sweater stretched across his chest. He’s even got thigh high socks and platform shoes to complete the look. If he didn’t think he looked fucking fantastic, Steve’s slack jaw would tell him otherwise.

At some point in the long minute Steve took to catalogue every inch of him, his hands had found its way around his waist, fingers absentmindedly stroking the top of his skirt. “Was I s’posed to find a purple dress? ‘Cause I don’t got any on hand right now,” Steve asks, though his eyes are still glued somewhere in the vicinity of his thighs. 

Bucky smiles, and comes in for a peck. “No, this is great, you’re wearing your ankle boots, right?” Steve _does_ look good. The shirt is tight without bursting at the seams, Bucky’s personal favorite look of his, but it’s the pants that’s making him want to grope back. He wonders why Steve had it made in the first place, because there’s no way it’s off the rack. The back makes his ass look like a quarter could bounce off of it. “Where the fuck did you get these, Steve? I mean, _fuck_.”

Steve scoffs, and runs his hands across the back of his skirt to find the bare thigh underneath. “Buck, honey, _look at you_.” Steve’s hands make their way further up, squeezing palmfuls of flesh. “You can’t be serious with this, sweetheart, please.”

Bucky laughs, not believing how much Steve’s into this. He knows he looks hot, and it’s an undeniably sexy Velma he’s gone for, but he can actually see Steve harden just from the sight of him and a little heavy petting. “Seriously?” 

“Please, let me, I just- Buck, honey, yeah?” Steve nuzzles into the side of his face, eyes still locked onto the rest of his body. The finger rubbing against his underwear and getting closer and closer to its target makes it clear what Steve’s asking for, and something about his boyfriend getting extremely hot and bothered in no time flat is _really_ doing it for him. “Fuck, look at these thighs, you gotta- Gotta let me, before we go-”

Bucky reaches up to bring their mouths together, and the moan that slips out of Steve’s mouth as he immediately devours his tongue is loud and involuntary. “Yeah,” Bucky breathes out when he gets the chance, and Steve makes the hour-long delay to their Halloween night _extremely_ worthwhile.

◆

Matt’s place turns out to be a converted warehouse, one wall made up entirely of frosted windows, clean enough to let in moonlight that bounces off the absolutely insane Halloween trinkets covering every inch of space. Non intrusive colored lights bathe the crowd in purples and blues, a fog machine feeds the room with an eerie quality, and colorful gem toned decor cover the walls and hang from the rafters, from pumpkins carved into various designs to skeletons and witches’ brooms. 

All of it is honestly just making Bucky curious about what his place usually looks like without the layer of spook. They’ve sampled most of the food and beverages - themed, of course - and Bucky manages to drag Steve to dance for an acceptable amount of songs. 

While they did initially meet at a club, Steve is never the first to suggest indulging in the pastime. He knows it’s not a lack of skill, because he’s seen Steve move during other activities, but it seems to be one of those things that the guy's weirdly self conscious about. Once Bucky gets him focused on just moving together, though, Steve always keeps up just fine.

“Hey now,” Bucky holds onto Steve’s forearm, keeping it in place. He’s been getting steadily more handsy as one song turns into another. “We had our fun at home,” he kisses Steve’s jaw, sweet and chaste.

“Sorry, honey,” Steve smooths down the sweater and skirt, a thinly veiled excuse to touch, earning him an amused glare. He has to let out a giggle, because he’s enjoying this too much. “I think you just broke my brain a bit ’s all,” Steve says into his cheek, and deliberately places both hands around his waist to keep them from wandering. 

“I can relate,” Bucky undulates his torso against Steve’s, who makes a noise between a disbelieving grunt and a distracted appreciative sound. “Oh, come on, you know you’re hot shit,” he teases, but then softens his gaze. “And there’s this small fact of me loving you, so that gets me going too I guess.”

Steve laughs, unrestrained and joyful, and curls his fingers behind Bucky’s neck to pull him up for a long kiss. “Yeah, okay.” He licks once more into Bucky’s mouth before giving a final peck to his lips and nuzzling into his hair, letting Bucky go back to moving to the beat. 

He finally spots Matt and Luke by the refreshments, and motions at Steve to get off the dance floor and head over. Matt’s been playing host so far and Luke was busy with some other friends, so they haven’t gotten the chance to say hello. He calls out to them, and they meet in the middle by a neon sign of a mummy. Where the hell does Matt get these things?

Their wonderful host is dressed as Batman, cape swishing behind him as he walks, and Luke’s dressed like some kind of cowboy. “What are you supposed to be?” Bucky flicks at the collar of Luke’s brown coat once he’s in reach.

“Captain Malcom Reynolds, obviously,” Luke smoothes down the thick distressed fabric. “I can’t believe you already forgot, we watched that show nonstop for a year.”

“Right, right,” Bucky grimaces. He really does love that show, but it has been _a while_. His guess of cowboy is close enough, honestly. He’d never say that out loud in front of Luke, though, in fear of his wrath. 

Luke eyes their costumes, and pretends to think it over. “I wonder who you could be.” Bucky rolls his eyes, and shoves him hard enough to make the much larger man stagger back. “Okay, jeez, Velma and Daphne, I know.”

“Oh, nice!” Matt grins. “Did you go classic?”

“I _would have_ ,” Steve volunteers, and Bucky gives a long-suffering sigh, because he’s been on this every time someone comments on their couple’s costume. 

Becca had brought Darcy - who dragged along Thor and Jane, which prompted Bucky to wonder if either of those women ever do anything without the other - who asked why Steve hadn’t gone for the dress. Steve had looked both vindicated and upset, because while he was _very appreciative_ of Bucky’s costume, he did mention that it made it look like his isn’t as thought out in comparison. He’d vehemently argued, “I was told _modern Daphne_ , I didn’t know! I woulda done it!”

“Steve, I swear to-”

“But Bucky never told me to,” he goes on now to Luke and Matt, pout somewhat not as effective when he’s still draped all over Bucky like an overly affectionate and snuggly puppy. “So I’m just in pants and Buck gets to have all the fun in the skirt.” 

Bucky decides to change the subject before Steve can grouse even more. “Matt, this place is insane. I mean it’s huge, for one, but how’d you pull this off? Was this all up for the whole of October?” 

Matt shakes his head. “Just for tonight. Luke and a few other friends helped with hanging everything from the ceiling. Gotta put all these giants we keep around to work, right?” 

Bucky nods solemnly, patting Steve’s chest a couple times. “You’re right, I make Steve change all the lightbulbs at home too.”

Luke grunts out, “You make it sound like I hung things up without a ladder. I’m not _that_ tall.” He isn’t, but he _is_ taller than Steve, if barely, which is impressive enough. Steve’s somehow acquired a stack of brownies decorated like cracking headstones with candy floss spiderwebs and all, and is offering a chunk of it to Bucky. He gratefully accepts by capturing it straight into his mouth, groaning at the orange chocolate flavor. “You like it? My mom made like five trays to bring over.”

“Oh my god, I’ve missed your mom’s brownies.” Bucky steals another mouthwatering piece. “Luke’s mom used to own a bakery,” he tells Steve.

“Oh yeah?” Steve asks. “Musta done well, these are addicting.” He scarfs down the last bite, and washes it down with a sickly green colored drink. He looks to be on the verge of asking for a recipe, but Bucky’s ringtone cuts him off. It’s Dani, who’s at the house for trick or treating - he doesn’t like going out on Halloween, and always volunteers to man the house and give out candy. Bucky motions to the side door, and as he leaves, hears Steve asking, “So, now that Buck’s not around to interfere, what was he like in high school?”

Bucky sighs, figuring Steve will hear the stories one way or another. “Yeah?” He answers the phone, and is greeted by a sigh and somewhat sombre chuckles. “Everything okay?”

“So I got a call,” Dani starts, voice reluctantly entertained. “From the police station, not too far from where you are.” 

“Um,” Bucky glances back through the door at Steve talking to his friends. “We didn’t do anything?”

Dani laughs, still subdued and low. “Yeah, I know that. Pete, on the other hand, was with a friend who graffitied a building down there and got caught. The friend actually tagging the building got away, but he got picked up on trespassing.” Bucky huffs a laugh. Fucking teenagers. “Called here to check in and all, and I figured you could send someone down to bail him out. Isn’t Clara with you?”

“She ditched, ended up going to her own thing. I think she’s back with that guy, what’s his face with the sweaters.” Bucky can never remember Clara’s revolving door of people at her beck and call. Dani grunts in comprehension, recalling the man but surely not his name either. “It’s fine, I’ll call around and see if anyone’s in the area. Otherwise he can stay the night in lock up and someone can bail him out tomorrow.” 

“Sounds good, thanks, Bucky,” crinkling sounds ring through, probably Dani in his tin man costume. “I’m heading home now, Leo’s staying at the house tonight.”

“Alright, goodnight.” Bucky hangs up and shakes his head, because he really should’ve seen porch kid getting into some kind of trouble coming. No one’s immune from stupidity on Halloween. He’s going to have so much fun teasing Pete about not being able to shake the cops. 

Steve’s still with Luke and Matt when he returns, looking much too gleeful for Bucky’s liking. “Hey, Buck,” Steve grins devilishly as soon as he slips back under his arm, looking like he knows too much to be trusted. “Matt told me about those songs you wrote when you guys were a band,” he starts, and Bucky instantly regrets everything leading up to this point in his life. 

He points a menacing finger at Matt, knowing that his ire is palpably dripping from his voice. “I’m getting you back for this. I’m gonna be airing all your dirty laundry at the worst possible moment, you just wait and see.” Bucky turns his indignation at Luke, warning, “You too, don’t think I’m fooled by you hiding behind Matt, I know all your tricks.”

“You’re terrifying,” Matt deadpans, looking calm and serene. Bucky doesn’t trust it.

Steve jostles him slightly, bumping Bucky’s hip with his own. “Everything okay?” He cocks his head at the phone still clutched in Bucky’s hand.

“Funny story,” a grin slowly takes up his face, knowing that Steve will definitely find the humor in Pete’s shenanigans.

◆

Steve finds it _hilarious_ that Pete got booked when he wasn’t even the one doing graffiti. So much so, in fact, that he all but begs Bucky to go and pick the kid up themselves. Bucky barely needs any convincing. 

They stay at Matt’s for an hour or so more, since the precinct is only a couple streets away. Bucky gets to dance with Darcy and Jane, dressed up as Sully from Monsters Inc and Joan of Arc respectively, and Steve spends some quality time with Thor. He has to give it to Darcy, going as Sully is the go to move - she’s basically just in a comfortable fuzzy onesie all night. 

By the time they walk through the doors of the police department, it’s half past 2 am. They stick out like a sore thumb, with most people in the vicinity in uniform or business casual, but there are some stragglers and civilians in costume, so Bucky chooses to own it. 

Steve wastes no time in bailing Pete out, but when they find out that he wasn’t arrested on his own, helps out his friend too - it turns out to be none other than America Chavez. Bucky follows an officer to the back, and watches her unlock the door to a large cell filled with around ten people in various psychedelic inducing getups. He’s only half sure they’re all unusually dressed because of the time of year. 

“Oh no,” Pete’s eyes bug out as soon as he comes into view. “No no no.” Bucky smirks, because Pete must know if he’s here then Steve came down himself. “Why are you here? I didn’t mean for you guys to show up!”

“He’s feeling generous,” Bucky teases, and flicks his eyes over to America, dressed as Nancy Drew - or Sherlock Holmes, he’s not sure, the magnifying glass glued into her pocket is all he’s working with. “Hey, America, how are you?”

“Been better,” she bites out. Pete sulks out the door, but when the officer motions for America to get out too, she doesn’t peel herself off the worryingly stained bench.

“Come on,” Bucky encourages her. “We’ll drop you off at home.” 

America doesn’t move a muscle. “I already made a call, someone will come get me.”

“Well you can call again and save them the trip, your bail’s paid anyway.” America’s mellowed out on some things like eating at the deli with Pete, but anything more involved, especially with Steve, still puts her on edge. She clenches her jaw, but reluctantly gets out. There’s not much else she can do, it’s not like they’re just going to leave her there.

“What do I owe you?” America stubbornly asks, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Despite appearances in front of the officer - not that it’s strictly needed, the Roshars have pull here too given that Steve’s out front scrubbing Pete’s arrest from the record - he knows she means more than just cash.

“Nothing,” Bucky sighs. “Just helping out Pete’s friend. We’ll get you home instead of stuck with the cast of Hair back there.” He gets a snort of laughter for his efforts, but the nineteen year old fixes her face back into a scowl as soon as she sees Bucky smile at her response.

“Oh, shit.” Pete suddenly grabs onto both of their arms, eyes even wider than when he realized who had come to pick him up. “America, who the fuck did you call?!” he hisses. Bucky follows his line of sight and sees none other than Bruce Banner walk in, clad in sweatpants and a sweater looking like his night-in of scary movies got interrupted halfway.

“I called Kate,” America shrugs. “She’s on a wilderness trip thing with her brother. Clint probably asked Bruce to come get me.”

Pete pulls on his hair, glaring at America with a panic stricken look on his face. “America, he’s _my boss_ , he can’t see me walking out of a jail cell looking like a goth spider! He’s gonna fire me, and I’ll lose my apprenticeship!” Goth spider? Is that what Pete’s weird plastic looking suit with protruding arms is supposed to be? This kid is so weird. 

“Hey, okay, hold on,” Bucky tries to defuse the tension, because Pete really is starting to look like he’s about to strangle his friend. “I’m sure he won’t fire you, Pete, Bruce loves you.” He glances at America, whose face is conveying the dawning guilt. “And America didn’t mean to make you look bad in front of him, she didn’t know who Clint would call.”

Pete scrubs at his face, smudged eyeliner coming off onto his fingers. “I can’t lose that job.”

“It’ll be okay, I promise.” He squeezes Pete’s shoulder, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You trust me?” Pete nods, biting on the insides of his cheeks. “Alright, come on.” They emerge to the front, where Steve’s explaining that he’s there to help Pete get home back to his aunt, to a Bruce looking drowsily confused and like he just realized he’s still wearing indoor slippers. 

“America, sorry it took a while,” Bruce perks up and relaxes once he sees who he’s looking for. “Clint called me half an hour ago but it took a while to drive down here.” America smiles in thanks, infinitely less surly. She's obviously much more at ease with the doctor after completing her internship program, no longer a nervous mess in front of the man the way she was at the benefit where they first met. He wonders how often Clint and Bruce hang out, if Bruce is the guy he calls to bail out his sister’s girlfriend. “Steve says he paid for your bail, too,” Bruce tells her.

America walks over to him, swallowing thickly and almost defiantly looking up at Steve. “Thanks,” she says shortly and in something resembling a challenge. Bruce furrows his eyebrows at the discomfort lining America’s shoulders, and looks over at Steve’s genial smile. “Sorry to interrupt your-,” she motions at Steve and Bucky’s costume. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky waves her off.

Bruce finally takes in his and Steve’s looks, head tilted in consideration. “You guys look ready to party,” he comments, which is a strange sentence coming out of Bruce’s mouth, especially in his quiet, dulcet tone. “Pete, are you okay?”

Pete grimaces and nods, getting ready to probably apologize and try to hold onto his employment. Bucky pats him on the back. “Halloween always brings out the reckless side in everyone,” he jokes. 

Bruce doesn’t show any indication of being upset that his employee was arrested, which is about what Bucky expected. Steve pulls out his keys, and asks America, “You’re in Brooklyn, right? We can give you a ride.”

“No,” America refuses. She shifts infinitesimally closer to Bruce. “I’m fine, thanks.” 

Bruce watches her for a second, thick tortoise-shell framed glasses and haphazard curls making him appear rather disheveled and unruly, and flits his eyes across the group. “Pete, you wanna join us?”

“No, Dr. Banner, thank you, really,” he shakes his head. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this, I swear I’ll be professional on Monday-”

Bruce sighs. “Pete, it’s okay, I don’t care. We’re off the clock, everyone does stupid things over the weekend,” he tries to assure the kid. “You wanna catch a ride with us? Steve and Bucky can go back to their night.” It sounds suspiciously like he’s offering Pete a second choice, as if he would be uncomfortable with them as America seems to be. 

“We’re heading home, anyway,” Steve backs Pete up when he declines and peeks at Bucky for help. “Nothing to get back to.” He smiles affably once more, placing a hand on Pete’s shoulder to lead him out. “We should go, have a good night.”

They shuffle into Steve’s vintage Mustang, and Bucky plays his Halloween playlist on low. Steve starts the engine and pulls out of the lot as Bruce and America make their way out, and head to their own car a few spots down. 

Once they’re driving away, Steve starts to laugh, catching Pete’s eyes in the rearview mirror. The kid groans, burying his face in his hands. “You wanna tell us how you got caught?” Pete peeks through his fingers, and mumbles indistinctly. “I woulda thought we taught you better than that,” Steve teases. “Maybe we should get your artist friend to pick up your jobs instead, sounds like he got away no problem.”

Pete mopes, knowing full well Steve’s only messing with him, but showing his displeasure just the same. “America was there, I couldn’t leave her.”

Steve sobers slightly, blinking against a shining headlight and cautiously making a turn at the intersection. “That’s good, kid.” A ghost of a smile graces his face, and Bucky can’t help but think he looks a little flayed open. “You’re right, you never leave your friend.”

Bucky leans back and around to look at Pete, smiling conspiratorially and mock whispering, “I think you’re gonna get a cookie.” Steve smacks him light-heartedly, but does reach over to open the glove compartment and pull out an honest to god jar of cookies. “I was kidding! When did you put this in here?”

“I know you were talkin’ outta your ass, Buck,” Steve shrugs, “But I’m not gonna make a liar outta you.” Bucky scrunches up his nose in a confusing mix of feelings, and steals a piece before handing the whole thing off to the backseat.

“Thanks,” Pete says softly, picking out an oatmeal raisin cookie from the assortment, and biting into the soft crunch. “I like your costumes,” he pipes up, and Bucky beams. “Bummer you didn’t wear the dress,” he notes. Bucky thunks his forehead onto the window, in hopes of knocking himself out and escaping Steve’s rant at least once tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do tell me any and everything you want to share, if that’s something you feel like doing.
> 
> Could Steve and Bucky have gone as something better on Halloween? Probably. 
> 
> Happy New Year, all! There’s an upcoming installment that I’ve written as well, so keep an eye out and expect that in a week or so.


End file.
